End of the World
by Cascade Waters
Summary: It was over. Oneshot AU for the resolution to episode 'With Tired Eyes...' WARNING: Contains allusion to non-sexual spanking. Don't like, don't read.


The End of the World

by firechild

Rating: PG (leaning toward 13 for angsty subtext)

Disclaimers: Yeah, not mine, never will be, no money, no sue….

Spoilers: With Tired Eyes, Tired Minds, Tired Souls, We Slept

Warnings: My first actual attempt at OTH, and I am not sure you could call this a fic so much as… a vignette, maybe. It contains an allusion to corporal punishment.

Disclaimer: I still own about 14 rolaids. I do not, however, own the characters, nor am I making any money from this.

A/N: This is an AU, started just after this episode aired, when we still didn't know what was to become of Keith; there will be a companion piece, sort of a prequel to this, but writing it has been difficult...

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It was over.

All the noise, all the agony, all the shame, all the waiting. All the wondering what would happen next, what could possibly happen next to make this any worse or any better. Every time it seemed like the end of the world had finally come to his door, something else would crop up, something would reset the countdown, and the waiting would begin again.

But no more.

It was over.

Finally over.

As he lay here, here in this place of reckoning, this place where he had met the end at last, here there was silence. Here there was peace.

Without will or wont, he lay curled, canted, and let the waves take him and rock him as they would, let the rocking take him through the waves, let it all wash over him and bleed away from him, taking with it what was left of who he had been, leaving only a small, clean, quivering soul within a small, sweat-bathed, quivering body, limp but for his hands, which clutched the fabric, rough and soft, that for the moment composed his entire reality.

It was over.

He had his answer.

Sitting in that library, pretending that he could not smell the books and the blood and the dust, he had dreamed of this moment; at the time he hadn't understood why he would dream of something like this, something so fundamentally power-stripping. In those last minutes, though, when the pretenses had burned away and he had nothing left between himself and death but his dreams and his terror and his need to keep their angel out of Heaven for a little while longer, he had asked himself if his dreams would be enough to save him, to save them, to overcome his terror and the blood on his hands.

It was over.

He had his answer.

The dream had stepped into reality, had stepped between the hand that held death and the arms that cradled the angel of death, had called him by name and had laid claim to him and then had ordered him away. The dream had taken the pain that had been marked for the dreamer, had put forth the ultimate sacrifice. The dream had come, had saved him, had saved them, had overcome his terror and spared him from injury. The dream had offered a life for one, for two, for twenty, for them. For him.

Now he lay in the arms of the dream; the wound had healed, the heart still beat, power still flashed from the eyes and honor still poured from the lips. The shoulder once ripped through by years of betrayal and hate was now as strong as ever. The nightmare had lived, but so had the dream.

It was over.

Lucas couldn't remember the last time he'd lain in Keith's arms like this, just quiet and limp and trusting. He also couldn't recall when, if ever, his bottom had felt so raw or his spirit so protected. What he did know was this: what he had come from did not have to be what he became; he did not have to give the nightmare a hold within him, to become him. The shadow might always be there, but it would not smother him. It would not be allowed to smother him, not as long as this man, the man who had always been his father, lived as that dream, stood guard at the edges of his dreams, ready with loving words and strong hands to keep the shadow at bay. He would not, he could not, become the monster that had driven a boy to the edge of sanity and then blown him over. He could not, he would not, become the monster who had driven his brother to the edge of death and then asked the world to blame the dead. He would not, he could not, because this man believed in him, and Lucas would not betray that, would not betray the hero as the monster had.

He wasn't concerned with time; that door had opened at last, the world had already ended for him. He knew that here in this place he was safe, he was loved, he was held. And that was all that seemed to matter. Here there was silence, silence from the screams and the shots and the sounds of terror and horror and helplessness and hopelessness. Here, where his bottom throbbed and his soul was content, where his guilt and grief soaked the rough, soft fabric that covered the wound that had been the price for every moment of his life, where the blood had been washed away a drop at a time, where his champion was warm around him and his demons lay dead at his feet, here there was peace.

Yes, that door had finally opened, and through it had come powerlessness and penitence and pain. Through it had come that stripping away of all pretense, all protection, all illusions of self-sufficiency and unending shame. His uncle, his hero, his father had come to his door just when Lucas had stopped expecting him. Yes, Keith had come for the reckoning. Yes, he had stepped through that door and he had brought with him the end of the world.

It was over.

He was reborn.

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End file.
